In the Absence of Clocks

Sex and the Orange Revolution

39 Sex and the Orange Revolution From our bed, we can hear the crowds stomp and chant. Masha fights out of her orange clothes, anchors her knees to my hips. I truss her with sheets, tell her that she must sleep, that I must go. At the corner bar, the men speak of nothing but poison, the bartender’s smile is the yellow of worn piano keys. He knows everything. Tells me how the city allows no one to forget or leave. Outside, the protesters’ moon is a plate of bruised fruit, the air is chilled by a boy’s violin. I walk, not knowing where. Only later do I notice how Masha’s door moans, how she doesn’t hear. Her sleeping eyes undress only for the streetlight, live and orange behind me. ...